The void is thick inside us. The void is choking us. We choke on our words, which are void words.
We shouldn’t even call it the void. It’s far too grand a name. Far too prestigious.
It’s sordid … It’s disgusting …
The void adds another dimension, that’s all. An … echoing. The sounding of all things into futility. Into nihilism. Into nothingness.
The void, like an old friend. A comforter. Even though it offers only the opposite of friendship.
The ultra-void. The void, multiplied by the void.
God? No: the void. Faith? No: the void.
The anti-God. Where God’s dissolved. Where the creation’s impossible.
God can only hold it back, the void. And only for a time. But time’s been called. Our time is up. It’s void-time now. It’s voiding, now.
The great hollowing. The great erosion from within.
The hollow, echoing. The infinite reverb of all things. In echoing futility.
A wandering out and out and out. A falling of all things.
A wind, blowing through us. Through all things.
An echoing. A doubling. A dragging behind. A slurring.
Our anti-cosmology. Our non-cosmos. Our anti-stars. Our non-galaxies.
Our echoing hearts. Our voided hearts.
Our voided words.
All the words we feed to the void. The words we offer it. And that’s how it speaks to us: in our own words. In our echoing words, that echo in the void. In the words we lose as soon as we speak them. In the words that sound strange in our throats.
Work in Progress 